


The Joshua Tree

by Bubastisboo



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Age Difference, Coming of Age, F/M, Gen, Religious Content, Sexism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8815798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bubastisboo/pseuds/Bubastisboo
Summary: What makes monsters of men? How does a young Mormon missionary shirk his people and his faith, to become the right-hand man of Caesar? What sort of events would trigger such a downward spiral? This is not a story about the Malpais Legate. This is not a story about the Burned Man. This is the story of Joshua Graham, and his life before that fateful mistranslation. Who was he? Who were his family? Did he have friends? Did he have hopes and dreams? What could have possibly happened to him to justify his future?NB: All major dates and events not stipulated in game are based off information from the Fallout Bible and Van Buren.





	1. Chapter 1

New Jerusalem, 2225

The problem – as far as Nephi saw it – wasn’t so much that Sariah Oake was a wanderer. No, no, the wandering wasn’t a problem in and of _itself_ , he admitted. It was only natural, he conceded, for a child of the Oakes to give in to such flippant and capricious desires. That was their want, of course. Long before the ruins of the Old World were revealed; long before the G.E.C.Ks of New Jerusalem were set; The Oakes were the first to ever step foot out of Vault 70 and into The Utah. Their reconnaissance was necessary then, of course. For decades they scouted the terrain, they wrangled the brahmin and bighorners, and they established trade with the primitive tribals. They were a strong, fast, crafty family, and they were well respected by the Church and the Elders.

In 2190: the first year of New Jerusalem, Jeremiah Oake protected the fledgling schoolhouse from a swarm of cazadores. The other Oakes mounted an offensive, and tracked down the nest, killing the Queen and delivering her poison sac to the medic clan. The Elders then declared them to be the Wandering Oakes, and gifted them with the honourable duty of protecting New Jerusalem. The Wandering Oakes excelled in their duties, and New Jerusalem flourished.

Then, when Nephi was just a boy of eight, tragedy struck. A band of raiders came; the likes of which had never been seen before. They were no wastrels. They were strong, organised, and relentless. They knew where the lookout posts were, and where defences were weakest. Before the Wandering Oakes had even mobilised forces and strapped on their SWAT vests, the raiders had sacked the yucca fields, slaughtered the brahmin, and destroyed homes. Most had hidden within the safety of the Vault. The Smith clan were not so lucky. Watermen by trade, they had been establishing a new irrigation line in the yucca fields. All had perished but their young. And a child without a clan was a tragedy indeed. What use then, were the Wandering Oakes if they could not prevent such atrocities against the Mormon people? And so the walls were built. It took almost ten years to finish them. Once completed, the Oakes were reduced to keeping watch atop the battlements – and so came the boredom. The Wandering Oakes would wander no more.

Sariah’s particular ailment wasn’t the ordinary doldrums he had seen in other members of the Oakes. They were all born with it, these days, even those little ones who had never stepped foot outside of the gates. It was in their blood. Yet it could easily be quashed by placing a .45 in their hand, and a SWAT vest on their back. After two or three clean raider headshots, it was amazing how quickly a Wandering Oake would settle down.  

The wanderlust Sariah exhibited was far-reaching. Further than the corn fields along the edge of the northern border wall. Further than the Great Salt Lake to the West. Further than the treacherous wilderness to the East. Nephi noticed that she would often stare wistfully into the distance – barely registering the lessons given each day by Bishop Mordecai – dreaming of a life that would never come to be. These dreams were downright dangerous, Nephi thought. Barely a year after the walls were erected, Caleb Olsen, a brahmin herder, had caught her trying to dig a tunnel under the wall on the lea of Vault Hill. Nephi learned later that the earth was softer in areas above the Vault. Jonathan Sorenson, whose father was chief engineer, had told him that it was something to do with the Vault disturbing the bedrock? Regardless, Nephi had frowned on her actions then, even if she was just a little girl. What could possibly have spurred her to attempt escape that day, when so many savage tribals and raiders would lose their lives trying to get in?

Nephi, being a librarian of the clan Graham, naturally had no use for a betrothed who wished to go walkabout so very desperately. The sway of her hips as she walked, the sleek ebony hair braided intricately in two, the intense Vault Suit blue of her eyes, and high, fine cheekbones – while they may have been the siren song to many a silly Mormon suitor – such trappings were worthless to him and _his_ kin. This line of thought was exactly why he was so confused by the string of events that led him to this engagement agreement.

“What use is a pretty whelp of a girl to me, if she can’t even read the back of a box of Sugar Bombs?” he opined far too loudly on the day his Father shook hands with hers.

“Nephi,” his Mother warned, “You would do well to hold your tongue.”

He rolled his eyes and continued; a fraction louder than before; “I would gladly hold my tongue, Mother, if Joseph Oakes would hold his daughter’s feet still long enough for her to learn how to read.” Sariah glared daggers from across the small congregation that had gathered to witness the agreement. Despite his bitterness at the situation, Nephi blushed under her stare.

“Well, at least her hearing is finetuned.” he added glumly.

How had this moment come to pass? Those darned Pip-Boys: that’s how. For whatever reason, the Elders hadn’t had them destroyed when the walls were built. Father had mentioned in the past the device’s ability to store vast amounts of geographical data, as well as the ability to transfer the contents of any holodisk to its hard drive. That was, undoubtedly, something that piqued Nephi’s interest greatly, though not enough to tempt him through the gates and out into the wilderness the way it did Sariah.

And, despite not being inclined towards the cataloguing of the New Mormon History – or any form of literature, really – the Wandering Oakes had obviously found a use for the Pip-Boys, out there in The Utah. And now? Now they were relics, gathering dust in Jeremiah Oake’s weapons cache. No Oake had worn a Pip-Boy after the great raider sacking of ’09. Much to their protestations, Jeremiah had believed it an insult to wear one after the deaths of so many. “What use were our VATS to the Smith clan that day?” he had dourly declared. By the looks on their faces as Jeremiah stripped them of the strange devices, you’d have thought it were the Oakes who had lost their kin that day. Nephi never did find out what VATS were.

So, that was how Nephi, scribe and translator of the honourable Graham clan, was to be wed to Sariah Not-So-Wandering Oake. Her dowry was complete and unbarred access to the Pip-Boys: an invaluable wealth of new knowledge to add to the library. “If Father is so desperate to crack into the old tech, why doesn’t he just take her as a second wife?” Mother had slapped him across the face when he said that last week. She stood right up at the dinner table and slapped him! It had been a joke, of course. There was no polygamy in New Jerusalem. Not anymore. The excesses and dalliances of the Old World Latter Day Saints had been destroyed that fateful October day, over two centuries ago. When he first read about them in the old texts – a boy of barely fifteen – he could scarcely believe it. Father and Mother had warned him to keep such things to himself. He didn’t. Word got around, as salaciousness usually does, and things escalated. One of the orphan Smith girls was coerced into a compromising... situation. Levi Olsen (happily married, ha!) had convinced the girl to become his second wife. The prospect of stability in the brahmin clan – or maybe just her wanton lust – was too great. She accepted his offer, and was secretly with child before the truth was uncovered. Levi was exiled, and the girl was left with the shame of her sex. Bishop Mordecai had to denounce the ways of the Old World in a mandatory sermon. Father had flogged Nephi with a switch whip.

Nephi had turned 25 the month before. He knew that it was his familial duty to marry, but he really had no interest in it. Not for such foolish notions of love or sex. Procreation was noble, he supposed, but not essential for _him_. Once, when he was eighteen, he’d caught one of the Ballard girls touching herself in the library. He was entranced by the rhythm of it all. Like a strange, personal dance. Her breathing was fast and throaty, her cheeks flushed; her brow dewy with a hot sweat. He watched her until what we could only deduce was her completion, wishing he could join her: his own desire pressing hard against his pants. Skulking back into the shadows of the bookcases, he relieved himself with just a few quick pumps of his hand to the intoxicating sound of giddy gasping just metres away. Flustered and sticky handed, the intense moment of ecstasy was not worth the sense of guilt he felt. Bishop Mordecai was most clear on the matter: carnal pleasure was a sacrosanct right of those wed under the eyes of God. Nephi heard this, and he understood. And each and every time he tugged out his brief release, he felt terribly ashamed. After she left, he grabbed the book she had been reading: Lady Chatterley’s Lover. He could have destroyed it. He _should_ have destroyed it. He took it home and added it to his not-so-modest collection of masturbatory literature in the footlocker under the bed.

Okay, so, maybe – deep down – Nephi knew that Sariah was desirable. And perhaps he had thought about her – once or twice – when he had been utilising the... things... in his footlocker, but that didn’t mean she was marriage material! To be sure, she was of prime breeding age, having turned seventeen that year, but she was a whole mess of Wandering Trouble.

“These Pip-Boys better be worth it,” he muttered as Father turned and smiled at him, hands outstretched. Nephi Graham, librarian and translator of the clan of Graham, swallowed hard and stood up. As he walked towards the three, he saw it again; the glint of defiance and adventure in Sariah’s eyes. This was not worth all the data caches in the whole of the Old World.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character names are a mixture of traditional, Old Testament names, and popular modern names derived from The Book of Mormon. 
> 
> Comparing Sariah's eyes to a Vault Suit: I figure these people have no idea what azure or lapis lazuli is. After 200 years, you'd have to find new clichés for similes, right?
> 
>  
> 
> I haven't written any fanfiction in over a decade, so any comments, feedback or critiques are greatly appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

He has tall, taller than most; so much taller than Sariah. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. She sulked a little when she realised that she would always be looking up to Nephi, whether she liked it or not. It would probably give him even more of a superiority complex. An angular jaw ended in a pointed chin, where hers was soft; pale skin where hers was swarthy and freckled. A funny, long nose with a bony bump in the middle, like someone had punched him: it didn’t flick up the way an Oake nose did. Nephi kept his sandy hair short and swept across his crown. Greenish-brown eyes like the tussock grass that grew at the foot of her lookout post – they seemed to hide some sadness, though she knew this to be deceit. There was no hidden sadness. She was sure that the Grahams felt they were superior to most of the other clans. Just because they kept the records, and catalogued the Old World texts – this didn’t make their jobs any more important than the watermen, the bighorn wranglers, the corn harvesters, _or_ the lookouts. Standing sheepishly beside his father – like a meek child, and not a grown man – Nephi’s false sad eyes kept flicking up to look at her, as if she wouldn’t notice. She saw everything.

It hadn’t always been like this. One of Sariah’s earliest memories was the day of the sacking. Stuck in that tomb-like Vault, she was only a baby, but she remembered him... or at least his _voice_. He must’ve been eight or nine, and stuck with the crèche while the clans prepared for the siege that never came. He read to them, from the Bible, the passage and its meaning long since lost to her, but the effect: that would never be lost. The children were entranced. _She_ was entranced. Even as a child, his voice had the ability to make all who would wail or cry stop. And they did. Not one snotty-nosed child cried boo that night, so long as Nephi continued to read.

But things changed. While Nephi’s magnetic vocalisations could probably coerce her into dancing with a mother deathclaw if he so desired, he grew into an arrogant intellectual, showing nothing but disdain to those who had no inclination to read or write; like Sariah. She had gone to school, like everyone else, but had never been able to pick up on the words the way the technical clans did. The technicals had teased her, and she had cried each night, for months actually, until her Father gifted her with her first pistol: A Light Shining in Darkness. It had been her Grandmother’s: its grip adorned with the smooth, pearly scales of a snake. Used in the Time Before, when all Mormons lived like ants in the Vault. All except the great Wandering Oakes.

 Reading, writing, adding and subtracting: none of that mattered anymore, so long as she could shoot through the eye of a gecko from fifty yards away. Yes, she decided happily: the life of a Wandering Oake was not going to be reliant on words or numbers... not that she hadn’t tried to learn, once or twice, to no avail. Anyway, any inkling she might have had to learn, well, Nephi had ruined everything. Years before, not long after the walls had been completed, her brother Nathan had told her of a set of instructions for modifying her pistol. A manual, he had said, that had taught him how to add the suppressor and scope to his own weapon, Longinus. Elder Jeremiah frowned on modification, so anything done had to be in secret. But a scope on A Light Shining in Darkness... That, that would be something.

With a pre-emptive lump in her throat, Sariah had walked through the doors of the Old World building, reinforced with the debris of other structures not so lucky to be repurposed. Ruth Graham (soon to be her Mother-in-law) had smiled warmly at Sariah and asked what she was looking for.

“Gun main-main-tenance” The words struggled to come out clearly and she blushed. Why should she be so bashful? This was a bad idea. Eyes suddenly firmly focused on her shoes, Sariah began to turn on her heel.

“Wait! Young Oake – Sariah, yes?” There was no malice or mocking in her voice. Just kindness. Sariah turned back, and cast a furtive glance toward the older woman.

“You needn’t be ashamed, young lady. It is no shame to take pride in your talents – and I hear you are a crack shot indeed!” Ruth Graham sure knew how to make a girl feel pride.

Sariah grinned “Took out a raider at 100 yards last week!” Ruth grinned back.

“Take the stairs up to the second floor, and it’s the third row of shelves to your left. Feel free to sit in one of the study rooms, in case you... don’t want to check any books out.” Her words were measured and careful. Ruth Graham knew what’s what, that’s for damn sure. Sariah nodded her thanks, before crossing the foyer towards the staircase on the far side. As she began to ascend, Ruth called out “Oh! And don’t mind Nephi, my eldest. He’ll be pottering around... He’s translating Ancient Greek today!” Sariah didn’t know what that was. She didn’t think asking would aid the brevity of this visit. She nodded and continued up.

Finding the shelf wasn’t hard. Finding the book? Well, no one had said anything about them being stacked like that! She couldn’t see the pictures on the front at all; they were all arranged tightly on their sides, shelf after shelf! “Fucking Nathan.” she grumbled under her breath. Poking her head out from the shelves and into the corridor, she glanced to her left: nothing. Down the end of the right, nothing either – no, wait, he was there all right. His tall, lanky limbs cast silly shadows across the floor. She listened: he was mumbling something. Ever so quietly, Sariah began to remove the books from the offending shelf, checking each dust jacket one by one. Rifles, pipe grenades, some sort of energy weapon; while she could not read their titles, Sariah knew weapons, and she knew _her_ weapon. After what felt like an age, and with a teetering stack of books next to her, Sariah found the book. Now what? Flipping through the yellowing, musty pages, her fingers felt a different kind of paper in the middle of the book. It was thicker, and smooth to touch. She turned to the start of the strange paper, eyes instantly lighting up at the rich, glossy photographs and diagrams of weapon maintenance and various modifications. This was more like it.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” Sariah jumped at the deep voice, almost out of her skin, grasping at the shelf for support – but it was too little too late. She had bumped into her tower of discarded books, and could only watch in horror as they toppled to the floor. The dust motes danced and eddied around them. There were books everywhere. Sariah stood, cemented to the spot. Her brain screamed for her to run and not look back, but it was as if every muscle in her body had suddenly stopped working.

He didn’t yell, or scold, or strike out at her; slowly Sariah’s head lifted from her chest and her terrified eyes met his. Nephi Graham just slouched against the corridor wall, arms folded across his chest, with one eyebrow cocked quizzically. “What were you doing?” That voice. It _did_ something to her insides. They knotted up, but it was kinda in a good way. She opened her mouth, and when nothing came out, closed it again. “Night stalker got your tongue?”

Still nothing. Nephi straightened up “Okay then, whatever it was: help me clean this mess up?”

It was as if he had complete control over her, and her body had permission to move again. Following his lead, she began to pick up all the books with him, reaching around under the shelves and stacking them into smaller piles. They worked quickly and silently, but she felt oddly at ease. “Okay. Now, I need you to look at the spines and pass me all the books with titles that begin with A or B.” In an instant, Sariah’s face fell. She scanned the first pile cautiously. The letters were all there, and she knew what each one looked like on its own, but together, suddenly everything seemed a big jumble. She picked a book at random and thrust it upwards towards Nephi. He took the offering and frowned. “No, this is _Guns and Bullets_. I need As and Bs. What’s wrong, can’t you read?” Whether the comment was a playful jest, or a snide remark, Sariah never found out. The trance of his voice was broken with those three final words. She began to run. She ran faster and further than she had before, trying to escape the shame; trying to outrun the lump in her throat, and the tracks of tears on her cheeks. She ran down the stairs, past Ruth Graham, past the friendly shouts of the Black girls playing hopscotch on the cracked and ancient roads, past the Church, past all the houses and fields of New Jerusalem.

The only thing that caught up with Sariah that day was the stitch in her side, and she finally came to a staggering halt at the bottom of Vault Hill. The ground here was so spongy and soft. She and her brothers would come here to throw dirt clods at one another. She remembered eavesdropping on some of the technicals while hunting varmint out near the corn one day. “If any raider knew the Vault was beneath them, they could dig right under the walls and into the city from here.” Well, if raiders could get in here, then couldn’t Sariah get _out_? She began to dig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I've tried to give Nephi and Sariah contrasting narrative styles: Nephi's being focused and reflective of his heritage, while Sariah's is fuelled by her emotional state and fear of being different/other.
> 
> \- I really, really wanted to make Sariah illiterate, as it always irks me how many characters in the Fallout universe are able to read and write. I wouldn't think that under the circumstances, teachers in Vaults/settlements would be particularly well equipped to deal with children with learning disabilities. 
> 
> \- As a relatively new settlement, New Jerusalem is a combination of rebuilt and re-purposed buildings.
> 
> All feedback is welcome!


	3. Our own private traps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the amazing @jejunus, who pretty much forced me at gunpoint (a .45 to the head) to continue this fic.

Chapter Three

The dress was threadbare and soft; with floaty, billowing layers of vaguely stained, cream coloured cotton that reminded Sariah of peeling sunburn. It was really too big; the skirt and train trailing down past her feet to create a tumbledown pile of fabric all around. Sariah was convinced that she would trip over if she made any attempt to move, which only cemented the thought in her mind that she should never move _again_ , staying instead affixed to this spot in the living area. Bishop Mordecai would most certainly have a hard time with her eulogy:

 “Sariah Jemimah of the Wandering Oakes died as she lived, standing glued to the floor like a startled gecko. She never married…” Sariah stifled a giggle at the thought.

It also smelled funny, but she supposed that was only to be expected – every single Oake girl had worn the musty old thing since before the Vault even opened. She sneezed, and absentmindedly wiped her nose with the cuff of the too-long sleeve. Her Mother, who, ever the eagle eye, had been braiding broc flowers into her hair, yanked her locks a little too hard. “Hey!” she yelped. “It’s not like anyone is going to notice! See – it matches the colour perfectly!” Sariah waved the slightly snotty cuff in Miriam Oake’s general direction.

Miriam grabbed the flailing arm and forced it back to the girl’s side. “Sariah,” her voice held the type of edge to it that would make you think twice before crossing her. “Your Father and I need you to take this seriously.” Her fingers worked quickly and deftly with the intricate braids. “Joining with the Graham clan; uniting our two families for the first time in almost a century – this is an immense responsibility, and an honour, _and_ – ”

“ – _And_ the Graham’s sure will enjoy those Pip-Boys.”

“God give me strength; Sariah, you _will_ take this seriously!”

Sariah looked deflated “I’m trying Mom, really I am.”

Miriam sighed, her expression softening. “I know how this must feel, Sar. Don’t think that for one moment that I don’t –” she cut off her own words as abruptly as she would the dissenting complaints of her children. Sariah shifted her weight to her left leg and craned her neck around, catching her Mother’s eye with a sidelong glance. Miriam smiled at her daughter almost furtively, and began fussing loudly and obnoxiously over the large number of bruised and damaged broc flowers that Amelia Black had delivered that morning.

“This really isn’t acceptable. Jon and Nathan took double duties watching over the Black’s fields last week…”

Sariah’s brow furrowed and she chewed on her lip thoughtfully. Of course her Mother knew how this felt. She’d been barely fifteen when she and Father had wed. Miriam was from the Christensen clan. Tanners and leatherworkers by trade, Miriam had taken to the work like a mantis nymph to baby corn. Her skills were more than a mere trade; Elder Jeramiah had declared Miriam’s leather holsters and bandoliers to be nothing short of _artisanal_. He demanded that all Oakes be equipped with her pieces. Elder Christensen was only too happy to oblige, and the caps did flow. Now, it wasn’t uncommon for an Oake to wed a Christensen. It had always made a sort of sense to Sariah that leatherworkers and Wanderers would benefit mutually from such unions. Her second cousin Bekka had been wed just last year to Jared Christensen, and her dowry had been a startling thing: three deathclaw hides. Deathclaw leather was the lightest and sturdiest hide in the Wastes. One hide alone was a _more_ than generous dowry for the Christensens. That was what made Miriam’s dowry to Father so unusual, even today: there wasn’t one. As far as anyone in New Jerusalem could tell, Miriam Christensen _was_ the dowry.

“Sariah, _please_ stand still.”

Sariah stopped fidgeting momentarily with the threadbare fabric and mumbled something unintelligible in lieu of a response. She didn’t like to ponder on any one topic for too long. She found that the longer she dwelled on things the more she felt an overwhelming sense of frustration. Of anger. Her mind felt restless and trapped. Often she would gaze out beyond her lookout post to the vast, lifeless craters of the Old World with longing. The particulars of her Mother’s marriage to her Father had always seemed slightly queer to her. Of course her Mother knew how she felt. _Hell_ , every woman in New Jerusalem for the past century knew how she felt! It was unfair that her lot in life – _God willing_ – was to be the fleshy vessel in which a trade was made between two clans.

 “Sariah!” Her incensed thoughts broke at her Mother’s cry, and she looked down. Her firsts were balled in the fabric, wringing it like a wet rag. “If you tear that dress, your cousins will never forgive you.”

In that moment, wrapped in the ridiculous dress like it was her death shroud, Sariah’s unease had bubbled to the top. She desperately wanted to run again. She wondered how far she’d be able to get in this thing. But the fine, faded white scars that crisscrossed her back reminded her of what would await her if she failed to escape again.

This _stupid_ dress. In all their years as Wanderers, hadn’t one single Oake thought to have scavenged some wedding clothes that were practical? Did the those SLCPD SWAT people not make tactical wedding gowns in the Old World? Sariah supposed not. And while Elder Jeremiah would lecture all the Oake children on the “Everlasting covenant of marriage” and their diligence to uphold the ancestral traditions of the Church – the wedding dress apparently being one of those traditions –  even he couldn’t even really be sure that this fluttering monstrosity truly _was_ an Old World wedding dress anyway.

Truthfully, when it came to the particulars of clothing, the clans of New Jerusalem – even the Grahams – were all relatively in the dark on the subject. Almost all of the Pre-war literature regarding clothing pertained to its construction rather than purpose. Everything else: contained largely within picture filled “fashion magazines” as the Grahams liked to call them. And Ruth Graham was adamant that that particular medium was difficult to find undamaged, and even more difficult to restore. Sure, it didn’t really matter that much these days, as most of the women could sew and knit, but whether the folks of New Jerusalem wanted to admit it or not, their current way of life as it was intrinsically linked to clothes.

Long ago, after great door of Vault 70 had been shut on the original thirty clans, something had gone very, very wrong. Honestly, Sariah wasn’t sure if she even believed it anymore (it made her laugh now more than anything else) but it was An Important Part of Oake History – or so her Father said – and so the story persisted. He never missed an opportunity to regale it to her impressionable nephews and nieces at family lunch after Temple.

When the bombs fell, and their ancestors entered the Vault, _everyone_ had been issued with bright blue suits to wear. Vault suits. Three suits per adult, two per child. Whether you wanted to wear them it or not didn’t matter: it was Vault-By-Law that you must wear your suit when not in your personal quarters. It must’ve been a such a sight – that dingy, claustrophobic ant nest filled with awful bright blue jumpsuits everywhere you turned. And so, day in, day out, everyone wore the suits. Now, Sariah was the first to admit that she wasn’t exactly _gentle_ with her fatigues and SWAT vest. She’d also torn enough holes and worn out enough inseams to know what could be mended by her Mom, and what went to the rag box. Really, it only made _sense_ that one day, eventually one of those suits would yield a tear too big, or have a threadbare patch too broad to mend. And then it was rag time for old bluey. But at that point, you’d surely need a new suit to replace the old one.

 “Three suits per adult, two per child.”

 Only, that’s where the story got strange. There were no new suits to give. Her Father’s voice would always grow animated at this point: there was originally a mechanical stitching device that was specially designed to make them. Whether it malfunctioned, or whether it ever worked (or whether there ever _was_ a machine to begin with, Sariah scoffed) – nobody knew. But that was how it was. No new suits to replace the old ones, and pretty soon you’d be down to one suit, and then… well, God help you if your ass was big from too many Fancy Lad’s Snack Cakes and you tore the seat of that last suit. And it was just plain _indecent_ to not have any clothes.

“As bare as the day you were born!” Father declared. The little ones always shrieked and blushed at the notion. The children would laugh, and Father would grin, and Sariah would roll her eyes. Now, there may be a helluva lot of things to be ashamed of in life - and Sariah figured that Nephi Graham was most certainly guilty of most of them – but being naked? Well, that sure had to be absolute worst of the worst, if it was worth sending people out into the wastes back then. Which is of course, exactly what they did.

It was common knowledge amongst all the clans that they had set out of Vault 70 in the year of our Lord 2100. Five men and five women of the Oake clan. They left not for food, or a place to lay the G.E.C.Ks, or even for munitions. No, they first braved the scorching radioactive winds and scoured the barren wastes of the Great Salt Lake City for clothes. They left their families and donned those ridiculous radiation suits: all in the name of common decency. Of the ten that left that fateful day, only five returned. Of those five, two died of radiation sickness not long after. Their names, engraved plainly on their family’s memorial in the compound graveyard, were all that remained of them now. Whatever sorrow may have been felt for the seven that perished in that time, Sariah didn’t know. Instead, Father had only ever regaled the Oakes with the _elation_ that was felt amongst the Vault dwellers in those dark, shamefully exposed times. For clothes they had searched, and clothes they did bring! Jeans and shirts and sweaters and coats, dusters, dresses, skirts, socks and underwear. Things that Sariah couldn’t even remember the name of if she tried: and this dress, of course.

So began the legend of the Oake clan. They searched the ruins for clothes, for machinery, for all manner of resources. Eventually, other clans would delegate their own representatives to accompany the Oakes on their explorations. Perhaps a particular component or resource required a trained technical eye – but Father had always dismissed this with a wave of his hand. In his opinion, the truth was that a Graham or Olsen or Black wouldn’t even dare leave that Vault without an Oake entourage at their side. For almost a Century they acted as Vanguard for the Vault. Pioneers: explorers of the expansive desolation beyond the door. Sadly, that was all before Sariah’s time. New Jerusalem’s seeds had been sewn; the walls erected, and Sariah was just as trapped as the rest – only she reckoned no one else seemed to mind.

“Done.” Miriam declared to the room, dusting imaginary motes off her hands in a self-satisfied fashion. Sariah looked up into her Mother’s smiling face, aping her expression as best she could. There was no running from this. Not this time. She gathered the layers of skirt in her hands and walked across the bedroom floor to the mirror in the far corner. It really was the most awful dress. The collar ruffled and flopped around her neck like shucked banana yucca fruit, while the sleeves all but swallowed her hands when she allowed them to fall lax at her hips. Her face was as it ever was. Sariah had never felt herself to be either particularly blessed or lacking in regard to her physical attributes, really, but she supposed she would do (for the likes of Nephi Graham, anyway). However, and it pained her to admit this, her hair really looked beautiful, _despite_ the bruised broc flowers. Her Mother had put a painstaking effort into the intricate, flower embellished braids – a skill surely mastered in the days of her leatherwork – they wrapped tightly around Sariah’s crown, ending in a nest of loose curls that fell down the nape of her neck and across her shoulders. Despite herself, Sariah smiled; the first genuine smile that she could remember in the two months since her betrothment.

“Sariah Jemimah Oake, you are a vision on this good day!” Father stepped into the room. He looked positively sheepish in his best brown pants and cream button down. Truthfully, Sariah reckoned _any_ Oake looked a mighty fool outside of their SWAT vest. Father placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, a little more force than could be construed as _gentle_.

“When you’re ready daughter, you will meet Nephi Graham outside. Together you will walk hand in hand to the Temple.” He loosened his grip and patted her upper back. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Father turned heel and left with far less ceremony than when he entered.

Instinctively, like a varmint in a trap, Sariah’s eyes flicked to the window. The sun was already high in the sky, casting its amber, dulcet warmth across the compound. There would be no better moment than now. The Oakes and Grahams would be congregating in the Temple by now – and the other clans would be preparing for the great celebration in the compound Mess Hall. Now or never, Sariah. She reached around behind her to the lacing that trapped her in this dress; that bound her to this life.

“You need to choose your traps in this life, Sariah.” _Mother_. Colour flooded her cheeks and her hands dropped from the tangled laces at the small of her back.

“This confinement, these walls – these things are only temporary obstacles, my love. For you, think of them as mere annoyances. But our greatest folly? We all make our own private traps. And it is up to us alone to see them, to know them, and to learn to avoid them.” Miriam had stepped up behind her and began to work at the laces.

“What will happen if I run again, Mother?”

Miriam paused, and hummed tunelessly. “I don’t know, Sariah. But I pray to God that they never catch you.”

Sariah’s brow creased, and she opened her mouth to retort when she felt the breeze against the bare skin of her back. He breath hitched and she looked in the mirror to meet her Mother’s gaze once more. Miriam stepped back and let the laces fall loose to the ground. Gingerly she reached forward and ran her fingers through Sariah’s dark hair.

Never breaking her daughter’s reflected gaze, she stepped back again, then to the side to reveal a neatly folded pile of patrol fatigues on the bed. Sitting on top, her SWAT vest and A Light Shining In Darkness. Sariah couldn’t be sure, as the mirror was cloudy and blackened, but she was almost certain her Mother’s mouth was raised in a half smile. She turned away from the mirror to speak, but Miriam had crossed the threshold and closed the door firmly behind her.

It was now or never.

_We all make our own private traps._

She stepped towards her clothes and .45; fingers gently caressing the smooth scales on the pistol grip.

_We all make our own private traps._

Sariah thought of Miriam Christensen, the young, gifted girl a literal commodity for trade. She thought of the Smith girls, relying on the charity of others. She thought of her Grandmother, a true Wanderer in the time before the walls. She thought of Nephi, and his childish petulance every time they met with the Sealer, Elder Osmond. Nephi, barely able to contain his disdain as he watched her fruitlessly trying to form the sounds of each word with her mouth. Nephi, rolling his eyes every time Osmond preceded a sentence with: “God willing”.

_We all make our own private traps._ _I pray to God that they never catch you_.

Sariah smiled – apparently genuine smiles were plentiful today – and walked out the bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been a helluva long time coming. Sorry dudes. I'd started writing it just as I'd been offered a new job, and as is often the case with these things, it's taken me nearly a year to get a good work/life/creative balance going. I *think* I've found it!
> 
> Thank you to anyone who has read, commented or left kudos. <3 
> 
> A special thanks to the people who managed to work out my tumblr (you know who you are!).
> 
> As always, any comments, criticism or feedback is most welcome. I'm trying to be consistent with Fallout lore and LDS culture, but if I've slipped up, let me know.
> 
> General notes: 
> 
> \- I do have a clan/family tree and compound/area map. If anyone is interested, lemme know.  
> \- "Our own private traps" is a reference to one of my favourite lines in one of my favourite films: Psycho.


End file.
